


Braveness

by julesholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, No Eurus Holmes, POV Original Female Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Pre-Series, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Past, University Student Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesholmes/pseuds/julesholmes
Summary: Where psychology student Sherlock Holmes meets violinist Hayden Scott, who teaches him what it means to be young and all that entails. And maybe, just maybe, they begin to interfere in police matters.Pinterest board: https://www.pinterest.es/julesholmeswriter/braveness-sherlock/





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Braveness](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/529607) by julesholmes. 

> First of all, this is my first Sherlock fanfiction, my first English story and my first time in AO3 so don't be too rude about it.  
English is not my first language so have that in mind while reading. Feel free to send me a message or a comment with any mistake you could find.  
This story is written initially in Spanish (and published in Wattpad) and I translate it the best I can. (Also helps me to improve my skills).  
I really hope you enjoy it.

_ **** _

**Shad Sanderson Bank, London**

**March 2010**

Until that precise moment, Sherlock Holmes had never felt such a deep urge for death itself. His heart pounded heavily in his chest and he was making efforts to swallow the tea he had prepared in Baker Street. He had brought a 16-ounces thermos full because he knew that, even though he had switched off his sense of sentiment a long time ago; there was one thing that always got him on his nerves no matter what.

Shad Sanderson Bank was located at the top of Tower 42, the fourth highest skyscraper in England; Sherlock remembered. It was crystal clear that any idiot who jumped from there could consider themselves dead before hitting the ground.

His recent flatmate, John Watson, who he started to see as someone trust-worthy, joined him next to one of the picture windows.

“Is something wrong?

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, frustrated; he didn’t want to answer questions. He didn’t even want to be there, but he was lacking work and some (interesting) things to do, he did not have any other option. He was bored, his brain was rotting, and he needed a case like the air he breathed, the cigarettes he smoked or the heroin he sometimes consumed when he couldn’t stand it, not even one more second.

_Heroin, _he thought then. And he experienced the urge of jumping off in that same moment because of how stupid he had been to put a thought like that in his brain.

“You hold onto that bottle like your life depended on it, “said his friend again, this time with a softer voice.

First, he looked at John with a sick to death face. Then, he looked at his right hand. His fingers looked white because of the pressure he was making. He could see every tendon in his hand, the red knuckles, and a vein that shouldn’t be visible swelling and reducing quickly at his heart’s rate. For one second, he felt exposed, but then he remembered he was the only one who focused so much on the little things and exhaled.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, “he said. Then, he drank a large gulp and turned around to face Sebastian Wilkes.

The man in a suit, with a fresh haircut and dressed as if he was about visiting the Queen, became speechless next to the door for a split second. Then, he gave a quick look at Watson and walked to them.

“Holmes, “said Wilkes, faking a big smile.

“Sebastian “Sherlock answered, they shook hands.

“How are you, buddy? Long-time no see.

Holmes looked at Sebastian Wilkes and, with only that look, he wished Sebastian wouldn’t say anything about what he knew Sebastian was thinking. He wanted to end with formalities as soon as possible so he could get to work and distract his mind from any other matters.

“This is my friend, “said Sherlock quickly when he saw Sebastian’s facial expression softening. The banker was about saying something he didn’t want to hear”. John Watson.

“Friend?

“Colleague,” said John

“Great, _colleague,”_ agreed Wilkes “grab a pew”

Sherlock lowered his guard for a second. He put carefully his bottle of tea in his old university classmate’s desk and took a seat. He opened his lips half-way to ask about the case.

_Too slow._

“I’m very sorry about Hayden’s” he muttered “Really, I know how important she was to you”

Sherlock thought he was having an attack for just a split second. He felt how all the organs in his body started to rock, spinning… like a house in a hurricane or an earthquake. Or both. The feeling disappeared and left a complete mess behind it. He felt like nothing was in its place anymore, like if nothing were okay.

The detective averted his eyes from Sebastian Wilkes and looked at the window above his acquaintance’s shoulder, thinking about how he wished he had jumped off when he had the chance.

He made himself sweep that thought out of his body. Usually, he wouldn’t even let those useless thoughts and feelings get inside himself. But when it was about Hayden, the city of Cambridge, his university years there… it was impossible to ignore. And then, he couldn’t keep himself clear of _feeling,_ as he did with any other issue. When that happened, the only thing he could do was sweep out whatever that had managed to get into his body and fix what he could fix and get rid of what he couldn’t. And this time, it felt like he had plenty of things that couldn’t.

Exactly like a house in a hurricane, his brain like a machine with breakdowns. As always had been.

“Uhm…” Sebastian tossed in his chair “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t need to hear that”

“Pre-” he started, but his voice broke half-way in his throat. Sherlock coughed and started again “pretty sure I didn’t. Thank you.”

The irony flew like a knife until it got to Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock knew he had put his worst facial expression when he saw how Sebastian’s fingers started to shake above the desk. Wilkes feared him, and he wasn’t wrong in doing so. Sherlock knew he could be quite intimidating, even when he didn’t pretend to be.

“Let’s start,” said the detective, taking a quick sip from his tea to calm his nerves and focus on work “the paintings”

His eyes were still two ice crystals when they were taking the escalators on their way to the exit, and John hadn’t stopped observing those eyes since Sherlock’s gaze had hardened after his meeting with Wilkes.

Even though Sherlock wasn’t thinking about their encounter, John thought he was. So in a desperate try to make the atmosphere more comfortable, Watson had asked how he knew about the two flights around the world that same month. But John wasn’t listening.

“... crossed the dateline twice, and didn’t alter his watch”

“Within a month? How d’you know that part?” John insisted, trying to catch up. He had got lost in the conversation.

“New Breitling. Only came out in February”

John nodded to himself, absorbing the new information and still impressed about Sherlock’s skills. They walked together some more feet to get to the skyscraper’s hall.

“You want to ask me something” Sherlock deduced, after some more seconds in silence and without stoping their pace “For a while. I guess it’s about…” he did a pause because he left as if he was choking. And he always struggled to talk about it.

He used that time to place his trench coat above his shoulders and find again his relaxed tone of voice, one that he needed to put like a mask.

“...about what Sebastian said” he followed.

“Truth is… you’re right”

Sherlock stopped walking and turned around to face his colleague.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about what happened in university, nor Cambridge, nor anywhere except the present time. Because it’s useless. The chances of any of it being useful in the future are non-existent. So I don’t care, and certainly, it doesn’t matter. Because is not useful to me or anyone. Everything happened before Baker Street is not worth my time”

Sherlock turned around again and started to walk.

“Liar,” said John “The knuckles are white again, you are squeezing the bottle. You knew we were coming here and you knew Sebastian would mention something about it. You are lying. You do care”

“Fast learner”

Sherlock didn’t turn this time nor did his voice sounded any different. But he looked down at his hand to discover he had his fingertips deeply buried in the cheap metal bottle now.

One tear fell from one of his eyes. He got rid of it in a second while sweeping away his feelings once more. Maybe one day he would be able to bury any sentiment, but for now, all he could do was kick them out and hope that next time they wouldn’t end with his being.


	2. London & Brighton

**Cambridge City Police Station**

**November 9th, 2006**

_ Hayden _

When I was little my mum used to tell me I was an open book. And I had always thought to be an open book was one of my best virtues. Three hours ago I had also the firm conviction that I would never get arrested for murder. And that was the exact situation I was in. Handcuffed to the table in an interrogation room, alone, and after all, doubting every single thought I ever had.

The inspector, which name I had forgotten right away, opened the room’s door again. The aspect of the man, who should be around his early forties, was hardened and serious as I had never seen anyone before. This time, instead of coming to me and threaten me or shout until I cried, he closed the door slowly and leaned on it.

I had the disgusting feeling that he was trying to fool me. Did he really think that a small 19-year-old girl would be capable of murdering her politic’s professor in cold blood? It was true that Mr. Lambert was a pervert misogynist and the world was quite better with one less of his kind, but I wouldn’t kill a fly! I had a lot of teachers and acquaintances like him before and I had never put a bullet in their heads.

Did the inspector find any type of dark humor in my hurt bloodshot eyes and the shivering in my body? Or was it he liked to silently admire small brunette green-eyed girls? I will never get the obsession men had with any kind of woman without really caring about their mental or physical state. I should look horrible after the three last hours, but I would look worse if my physical appearance showed every thought I was having.

“Miss Hayden Scott… I’m not in any way content with what I’m about to say” he said, and I knew that something good was about to happen, finally “but we don’t have enough proofs to hold you here any more time”

My heart skipped a beat and I couldn’t help but show a shaky smile.

“Nor will you find,” I said with a shaky voice “I have not killed anyone”

“We’ll see”

He released the handcuffs with a key movement. Instantly, I squeezed my wrists and tried to relieve the pain there rotating them.

“Get your stuff back at the reception”

I abandoned the room as quickly as I could, trying not to look like I was escaping, even though the truth was I wanted to. The inspector gave me a mortal gaze when I walked through the door, maybe he had realized about my awkward behavior.

How I  _ hated  _ to be an open book.

I tried not to look into anyone’s eyes as I walked through the police station to the reception window. Even there, I felt like everyone was looking. In the waiting room, the first row of chairs, someone got up and came into through the door I had just come from. I turned around to the officer and asked for my things: the class’s backpack with my books in it, the bus card and my flat’s key. They had me sign some papers and asked some more questions for the police record. I clattered one of my feet against the floor, nervous. I looked towards the door through which I had left while the reception officer stapled the file lazily. My things were still on the other side of the glass: so close, but so far. Meanwhile, the voices across the hall were rising.

"... back home," I heard the inspector's voice coming out of the hall.

"Do you  _ not _ understand what I’m saying?"

The voices were rising. The inspector was arguing with someone on the other side of the door.

"I'm giving you a more credible killer!" Do you seriously believe that she could pierce Lamert's head?

"Lambert." The inspector's voice rose in a growl. “Professor, Professor of Politics, Mr. James Lambert. To be so involved in the matter, you don’t even know the name of the victim.”

I felt a knot in my stomach when I realized they were talking about the same case, about my dead politics professor. The case for which they accused me of murder.

My fingers began to tremble again, I felt a tingling sensation in my hands that didn't stop. This was too much for me. I was 19 years old and I had never been arrested, I hadn't even set foot in a police station before. And I had always been one of those girls who feared the police for no apparent reason. I had been living in the city for only two months, I had moved because I had made it to one of the most prestigious universities in the world, the University of Cambridge. And now I was charged and investigated for murder.

_ I need to get home. _

The officer finally handed me my backpack. I didn't even have time to place it correctly before my heels turned and started walking towards the exit. It was raining outside and I didn't even remember what the closest bus stop was. Nor had I enough money for a taxi. I only had ten pounds on me and the taxi would cost twice as much.

However, all I had to do was go outside. The automatic doors closed behind me; I moved to the side so they couldn't see me through the glass of the doors and then I sighed in relief.

I didn't need to know how to get home, I would manage. I didn't need money for a taxi, I would find the bus stop. All I needed was to get out of there so the lunch stopped spinning in my stomach and every fiber of my being could relax and end the tremors.

Cambridge's drizzle wet my tangled hair. I took a couple of breaths with my mind blank, exhausted.

"Do we share a taxi?"

The voice made me jump in my place to the point I'm about to fall, but I grab the wall behind me. I turn to the left and see the same person as before, the one who had got up and crossed the door through which I had left seconds ago to talk to the inspector. He scared the hell out of me, and yet I was rethinking his offer. I was tired, shaky. I wanted to get to my house, take a hot bath and sleep for fifteen hours straight.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he apologized, taking the hood of his sweater out of his face.

I had not recognized him because the hood overshadowed his features. I hadn’t heard his voice regularly to recognize it; and even though we had never spoken, I would have recognized his face anywhere.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It was the name that was immediately above mine on the attendance sheet, the boy who was next to me on this terrible night outside the police station and the shadow that always sat in front of me in Sociology class. I had never heard him answer a question, nor had we ever spoken. He seemed to be the kind of person who was not interested in having contact with other humans. And yet, everyone talked about him. If he was already fairly popular in uni without interacting with anyone, I couldn't imagine what he possibly could have become if he had wanted to.

"You are ... William, aren't you?" I think we share some classes.

"I prefer Sherlock. In fact, we share them all.”

I frowned. I had only seen him in two of my classes. And anyway, how did he know which ones I was attending?

“Oh yeah? I have not seen you”

"I only attent to the classes that interest me," he replied. I pressed my lips together in a line trying by all means not to judge him by what he had just said.

"What were you doing here?"

"Prove that police have the same IQ as a fly," he said, getting his hands in the pockets of his black sweater. For a moment, I thought he was joking, but he remained impassive.” If you are not the killer, you should control those tremors. They will use anything against you.”

I looked at my hands when he nodded towards them. He was right, my fingers kept shaking. I put my hands in my pockets, noticing my jeans start to get wet and I leaned closer to the wall where a canopy protected us from the rain.

"It's not like I can help it," I replied. “First time I get arrested. A gesture of trust is good when everyone is waiting for you to confess, you know?” I said “Thanks for thinking it wasn't me”

Sherlock shrugged.

"You're welcome, but it's not trust matter," he said. “I slipped into the crime scene while the police entered. The wounds look like a bullet’s, but it’s impossible for a bullet to do such a shallow wound. The ones in the chest almost did not pierce the skin, so it had to be an object and someone with a brutal force. I don't see you capable of having that strength.”

For a moment, I didn't know if I felt insulted or relieved. I chose the last. The fact that he had reached those conclusions was simply amazing.

"So ... where are you going?" Said Sherlock.

“Victoria Street, you?”

"Same, we'll share a taxi," Sherlock said, moving away to stop the vehicle in the street.

I was surprised by how he had spoken. Sherlock did not doubt, did not ask, did not hesitate. It was impressive how someone's ego could reach those limits.

_ "He's probably the smartest student I've ever met, that's what the teacher said," _ I remembered my friend Jade said, sometimes she talked about Sherlock just like the rest of our class. Jade and I both studied the same degree, which was even better  _ "That guy is a geek, wherever he goes they speak badly about him" _

I looked at him for a moment and realized that he didn't look like a geek at all. A little sloppy, perhaps, because he did not dress like the rest of the students nor did he seem to care what he was wearing. Of course, Cambridge was an elite university, an incredibly expensive one, my own mother and I were making an effort to pay the tuition. You couldn't have expensive clothes and expensive college at the same time unless you were wealthy. Not my case, of course.

From where I was I could see the sharp jaw, the straight nose, and the sharp cheekbones. Curly black hair fell on his forehead. And when he looked at me, already inside the taxi, I couldn't help taking my eyes off. A shiver ran through my body.

"What part of the South are you from?" he asked.

"How do you know I'm from the South? I don't have an accent anymore.”

Sherlock looked at me for several seconds, serious, as if he was waiting for it to be a joke. He had a slightly square and marked jaw that made him look older, although the roundness of the cheekbones and the lack of facial hair indicated that he was at that age when you just have left adolescence. His expression was illegible and I thought that, perhaps, it was obvious to him that I came from the south.

"You don't carry an umbrella," he replied simply.

I shrugged without understanding.

"It's a pretty poor deduction."

The small crooked smile was not erased from Sherlock's face.

“It rains very frequently in the North. In all of England, actually, but not always. Those who live in the North carry umbrellas constantly, even if it doesn't rain, even when the television says it's not going to rain; because they know that the weatherman is wrong. In the South it rains a lot less, you are not used to carrying umbrellas, you don't usually need it”

"Are you from the North then?" I assumed. I was impressed but still tried to hide it.

He carried a small folded umbrella in his hand.

"No," the umbrella in his hand waved a little. “I’m from London.”

I understood the joke and, for the first time that day, I could laugh. A few seconds later Sherlock did too. Not only in London it rained a lot, but the crime rate was much higher than in any other city in the United Kingdom because for some reason people become more psycho in the slums of larger cities. And the umbrella can help in those cases.

"But my parents live on the outskirts of London," he continued. “It's a town, all very rural, boring, nothing ever happens.”

"Okay, but I could be from London too."

Sherlock shook his head.

“You are a little more tanned than average, although you are still pale like all English person; and you have a shell ankle brace of some months old on your left ankle, which indicates that you spent a lot of time with open shoes, flip flops or barefoot and near the sea. You lived in a southern coastal city, maybe Plymouth, Brighton, Hastings or Dover. Although Dover has many cliffs, I would dismiss that option”

My breathing stuck in my throat.

"Brighton," I agreed. And, at that moment, I decided to forget about any prejudice I had of Sherlock Holmes. After all, he had tried to clean my name. That is impressive, deducing so much about someone with so little to none information.

He looked at me for several seconds.

“What did you say?” he asked.

"That’s impressive," I repeated, with an attempt to smile. “I’s called praise”

He blinked a couple of times.

“What’s wrong? Don't they usually tell you? I insisted.

"Outside my family circle, no, nobody had told me." Sherlock looked at me, with an arrogant half-smile on his face and still disconcerted. “People usually call me vain, rude cheeky or a son of a bitch. Usually the last one”

"We've arrived, Victoria Street," the driver announces. “It would be twenty pounds please”

I took out my wallet from my backpack and looked for my part. However, Sherlock pushed a twenty-pound bill towards the driver’s hand and, when he did, I saw that he had three fifty-dollar bills in his wallet.

"Already paid," he said, pushing me out of the taxi.

"Have you paid my part? Why?”

He just shrugged.

“Does it matters? I have too much even for myself”

I kept my eyes wide; he was rich. He kept three fifty-pounds bill as if that wasn’t potentially dangerous, and he didn't seem to care or see if people saw or robbed it. He carried the wallet carelessly in the pocket of his sweater.

I was totally wrong about him. Once again.

“To be a student of Psychological and Behavioral Sciences, you don't pay much attention to detail; You look surprised.” I pursed my lips in a line, offended, Sherlock's irises fluttered a little in various directions and his body moved uncomfortably as if he was about to apologize. “I think that wasn’t very polite. I'm right, however. Truth is I live and dress like a homeless, so it isn’t your fault that you could not see it. I am not the best example to start making deductions.”

"It doesn't matter." I downplayed the matter, it wasn't that important, and he had tried to help me so I decided not to argue with him. "See you in class." My voice dropped, reminding myself that returning to class right away might not be a good decision.

"Elementary," he said. “I will solve the case and the police will realize that you could not kill anyone. Although we would have to be blind to not realize.”

I nodded, his words seemed to have good intentions, but they didn't comfort me at all.

"Good evening," I said.

"Good evening," he replied.


End file.
